The DDoS attack began at dawn.
I monitored it through a secure terminal window the service provided. A real-time graph showed traffic flooding the Reykjavik server IP—a tidal wave of garbage data requests.
Within an hour, Kasia reported.
"Goblin Coin Hegemon' chapter update failed. The scheduled 6 AM chapter did not publish."
A first. A crack in the perfect machinery.
The story's ranking stuttered. It didn't drop, but the meteoric rise halted.
It was working.
But "-D" wasn't one to leave a challenge unanswered.
At 8 AM, my phone rang. Unknown number. I answered.
"Alex Thorn?" A man's voice, smooth, corporate.
"Who is this?"
"Grigor Volkov. I believe you recently acquired a stake in Vortex Media." The name of the private equity firm linked to the shell corporation. "I'm calling to discuss your… hostile market activity."
My Financial Intuition screamed: Predator. Leverage seeker.
"This isn't a hostile activity. It's an investment."
"An investment followed by a targeted cyber-attack on a business associate's assets?" His voice was amused. "The server cluster in Iceland, Mr. Thorn. That's juvenile. And expensive for you."
He knew. Of course he knew. "-D" had likely handed him the information on a silver platter.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice flat.
"A ceasefire. You call off your digital dogs. I ensure my… content partner… moderates its growth. We share the genre. A duopoly."
He was offering a deal. A split of the kingdom.
The old Alex, the one hungry for any validation, might have considered it.
The new Alex saw it for what it was: weakness. His weakness. He was feeling the pressure.
"No," I said.
Silence on the line.
"Excuse me?"
"I said no. There's no duopoly. There's a throne. And I'm sitting on it."
I hung up.
The call was a sign. I was hurting them. The beast was starving, and its handler was getting nervous.
I doubled down. I authorized another $50,000 to upgrade the DDoS to a more sophisticated, penetrating attack. It wouldn't break the fortress, but it would keep the gates shut.
At school, the emptiness where my skills used to be was a constant ache. I caught myself trying to use Reader's Insight on my history textbook. Nothing.
I was becoming aware of how much I'd relied on the System. Not just for power, but for certainty.
It was humbling. And infuriating.
After school, Kasia sent a new, urgent message.
"Counterattack. Our sysadmin contact has been flagged internally. Fistoria security is questioning him. He may fold. My access is also being audited. They are looking for leaks."
"-D" or Volkov was striking back through corporate channels. Trying to cut off my limbs.
I had to act faster. Decisively.
The feed was the point. Starve the beast.
But what if I could poison the feed?
I had no magic. But I had a universe in my head.
I opened my writing software. I didn't write a chapter of Chronos Imperium.
I wrote a virus.
A literary virus.
A two-thousand-word short story titled "The Goblin's True Ledger." A parody, a scathing satire of "Goblin Coin Hegemon," written in a perfect mimic of its style. It exposed every lazy trope, every logical flaw, in the form of a goblin's hilariously inept accounting ledger.
I published it on a free writing site, under a throwaway name. Then, using the remainder of my DDoS service budget, I blasted the link directly into the traffic stream heading for the Reykjavik server.
The garbage data requests now contained, buried within them, the link to my parody.
If the "feed" was an automated content pump, maybe, just maybe, it would ingest my story. Process it. Let the viral idea corrupt its perfect, hollow narrative.
It was a long shot. A Hail Mary.
I sent the command.
And then, I waited.
An hour later, Kasia messaged, her digital voice tinged with confusion.
"The story… it updated."
My heart sank. Had it failed?
"But the new chapter… it's incoherent. It's repeating phrases about 'faulty ledger entries' and 'debt to the narrative.' The readers are confused. The retention rate for Chapter 22 has collapsed to 7%. The ranking is dropping. #7. #9."
A wild, fierce joy exploded in my chest.
It had worked. My literary virus had infected the feed. I'd poisoned the beast's mind.
I'd used my one true, non-System skill—writing—as a weapon.
The victory was short-lived.
A new email from "-D" appeared.
"Creative. Unorthodox. I'll allow it. The puppet is retired. You pass the resourcefulness check. But the week isn't over. 108 hours left. Let's see how you fare without your network. -D"
Before I could process the words, my phone lit up with a notification from Kasia.
Then it went black.
All my messaging apps showed: No Connection.
My email failed to send.
I was cut off. From Kasia. From my funds. From my fans.
Isolated.
The Audit had entered its next phase.
I was alone.
Truly, for the first time since my wish, I was on my own.
I looked around my silent room.
The cold fire burned, low and desperate.
108 hours.
//-\\
To my fellow authors in the trenches:
They told us we weren't good enough. They sent the cold, automated emails. "Not a fit for our current line-up." "Lacks marketability."
Every time you see Alex Thorn crush an editor in this story, remember: this isn't just fiction.
This is the scream of every writer who stayed up until 3:00 AM pouring their soul into a document that the world ignored. It is for everyone who has ever struggled with low reads, low reviews, low comments, and those painful, stagnant low collections that make you want to quit.
The gatekeepers are human. They are flawed. And in the digital age, they are becoming obsolete.
They sit in their comfortable chairs judging worlds they could never even imagine, let alone build. They look at spreadsheets while we look at the stars.
We don't write for the approval of a corporate board in a glass office. We write for the person scrolling on their phone at a bus stop, looking for a world better than their own.
We write for the ones who need an escape from a life that feels like a dead end.
If you have a manuscript sitting in a folder named "Draft 1" that you're too afraid to post—post it right now.
Stop waiting for permission to exist. If you've been rejected ten times, go for the eleventh. Use their "No" as fuel for your fire.
Alex Thorn had to die to get his second chance. You don't. You just have to keep typing until your fingers bleed and your vision blurs. The industry thinks they hold the keys. They forgot that we are the ones who build the doors in the first place.
Let them call us "cringe." Let them call us "amateurs." While they talk, we build. While they judge, we evolve into something they can't control.
Current Motivation Level: 21%
Next Level: +1%
If this chapter resonated with you, drop a comment. Tell me about the time a gatekeeper told you "No."
ALL HELL FROM WEBNOVEL STARTS FROM YOU!
— A.T.